


Break and Remold

by auberus, Morgyn Leri (morgynleri)



Category: Burn Notice, Highlander: The Series
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe, Crossover, Don’t copy to another site, GFY, Gen, References to Torture, Starvation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-30 17:52:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19408336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auberus/pseuds/auberus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgynleri/pseuds/Morgyn%20Leri
Summary: Michael Westen finds Kronos while Kronos is brewing up his virus. This does not go well for him.After Kronos's death, Methos finds Michael in the warren of the submarine base and brings him out.





	1. Break

Most of the time, being a spy is nothing like a James Bond movie. You don't go around killing everyone who gets in your way, the cars are designed to blend in, not stand out, and you tend to do things like bribe warlords to leave oil pipelines alone rather than chase after bad guys who want to rule the world. This, apparently, is the exception to that rule.

Two weeks ago, an FSB contact swore up and down that his government had lost - i.e. someone had stolen - some material from Biopreparat, the Russian bioweapons program. Since my contact swore up and down that the material in question had been smallpox, I've been trying to find it ever since. That's why I'm in Magadan. It's a hell-hole in what used to be the center of GULAG country, and notable largely because people pay much less attention to what their neighbors are doing than they do in the rest of Russia.

Fortunately, the people here are also either ex-GULAG or their descendants, and pretending to be State Security gets almost reflexive cooperation here. I'm certainly getting it from my current partner in conversation. I'm also having to pay attention to the chess game that's my ostensible reason for talking to him. I'm very good, but he's close to being better. He's also been pointed out to me as the man who knows best what's happening in the city. If there's someone in town who doesn't belong here, he'll be the one to tell me.

My informant's glance at the latest arrival is appreciated, but unnecessary. He stands out, and not just because he's better dressed than anyone else here, or because of the scar on his face. His attitude attracts attention all on its own, and his blue eyes are the coldest and most arrogant I've ever seen. After one brief look as he sits down, I keep my attention firmly on my own game, and make sure my voice is low as I question Pyotr to find out just how long the man has been in Magadan.

As he answers, his voice just as low as mine, I move my queen into place and checkmate him. With a smile, he tips over his king, then leaves without looking back, either at me or at my target.

I'm torn between backing off for fear of discovery, and sticking around to follow Pyotr's newcomer back to wherever he's made his lair. Sticking around wins in the end, and since if I'm going to do so, I need to blend in; I set up another chess game, this time against myself. I'm not the only one playing solo, so it doesn't look terribly strange. I light a cigarette, too, and manage not to choke on the harsh Russian tobacco. It's just one more piece of my cover; most Russian intelligence officers smoke, while their American counterparts don't. There are all sorts of reasons for the FSB to be poking around in Magadan, but only one thing that might attract the CIA. I don't look particularly Russian, so every little bit not only counts, but is vital.

* * *

Kronos pauses at the edge of the park, his eyes sweeping over the chess players present for the day. Looking only for a bit of distraction at the moment, while the current batch of his virus incubates in its hosts. At least trying to improve his chess game helps pass the time, though he prefers more personal pursuits. If it wouldn't attract too much attention to his activities before the virus is ready to be used.

There's a new face in the park, and he raises an eyebrow a moment before he heads for his favorite table, settling across from his usual partner. It gives him a good view of the new person, without him having to do more than glance up from his game. It will probably hurt his ability to focus on the chess, but he likes to know who's new, particularly since the man's playing chess with Pyotr.

This isn't the first time Kronos has seen the sort of clandestine meetings that he's certain has taken place at the table across from his. The man doesn't look like anything in particular, though certainly if Pyotr is talking to him, he's managed to sell himself as someone to be talked to. Only State Security gets that kind of cooperation here, which is part of the reason Kronos chose it. The other is that no one pays attention to his lab or to what he's doing, so long as it doesn't effect them directly.

Kronos has worked with secret services of one sort or another, usually of the secret police variety, and he recognizes the subtle techniques of blending in. Though if that means the FSB has tracked him from the labs he'd stolen some of his samples from, or if some other intelligence agency has tracked him, he's uncertain. Or if this man is here for some other reason unrelated to his activities. Either way, he still is worth keeping an eye on.

* * *

Michael's done a lot of dangerous things in the past seven years, but this probably takes the cake. Dmitri Kozlov is a serious threat in his own right, and god only knows if he's got his biologicals stored properly. If he get smallpox from this, he's going to be seriously annoyed.

The actual break-in isn't difficult, though Kozlov's security would probably have stumped the average thief - and possibly even the average FSB officer. They tend more towards kicking in doors than picking locks, at least domestically. Nothing's clearly visible - no beakers full of germs bubbling madly away, for example - and that means a methodical search. Fortunately, Michael had watched Kozlov leave earlier, and hasn't seen him return. He should have plenty of time to look, especially as he's a hired lookout keeping his eyes peeled for Kozlov's return.

"Looking for something?" Kronos has had a lot of practice avoiding guards and lookouts, and the one the man has set is particularly easy to avoid as he comes back to the lab. He isn't disappointed to hear someone picking the lock, and he's leaning against the wall in the shadow of one of his refrigerators. His virus samples aren't kept up here, in the lab that anyone can get into, nor are his current batch of test subjects. He prefers to keep that all hidden in a lab that requires more than picking a few simple locks.

Michael's heart just about leaps into his throat, but he's pretty sure he manages not to show how badly startled he is. He does take the precaution of pulling a gun. Taking chances is a very good way to end up dead.

"I think you know what I'm looking for." The FSB has the sort of powers that the FBI can only dream of. Their agents don't need warrants to enter private homes, or to make arrests. They're not as feared - or as fearsome - as the KGB used to be, but the difference is smaller than most people in the West realize. "You took something that doesn't belong to you. The State would like it back."

"I'm sure they would, if I had it." Kronos steps out from behind the refrigerator, a lazy smile on his face. "Look around, there's nothing here that belongs to anyone but me." What he wants, he takes, and he doesn't care if someone else thinks that it is theirs. Especially not mortal governments or their agents. No matter that the man might become Immortal, as this one would.

"No closer," Michael warns him, slipping the safety off his gun. He doesn't have many options at this point. He certainly can't **arrest** the man - if he does, they'd likely end up sharing a cell in the Lubyanka - and if Michael shoots him, he'll attract the sort of attention he needs to avoid. Once he actually finds the stuff, he can make a phone call - but until he does, he's on his own. "I assure you, I intend to look around - but you're going to be guiding the tour."

Kronos laughed, grinning at him, holding out his hands in a mortal gesture of harmlessness that meant nothing at all for him. He didn't need a weapon to do damage. "Am I now? Show you all my research, and let you walk away with it, back to whoever your masters are?" He smiled a little wider, his expression icy cold. "No. No, I don't think so."

"Consider it a conciliatory gesture. It might ensure that the black hole you're about to spend the rest of your life in isn't the darkest one they can find," Michael suggests. He doesn't know what, exactly, is going to happen to Kozlov after he turns him over, but he doubts it will be pleasant. "I can always handcuff you to something and look myself, but cooperating might make things easier for you, as I said. I'd shoot you, but they want you alive." Being wanted alive, in Russia, is always a bad thing.

"I'm sure they do." Kronos steps closer, ignoring the gun. It might hurt, but it won't keep him down for long enough to let his guest really search his lab. Not even long enough to locate where he kept the entrance to his lab proper. "I also don't think you're going to do anything about it."

I pull the trigger. It's a violation of my informal agreement with my informant, and means the next few days will be pretty hairy, but Kozlov is never going to cooperate, and I'm not properly equipped to restrain him. It will make finding out how he got into Biopreparat more difficult as well - but that's the Russians' lookout. Mine is to make sure that the stuff Kozlov stole doesn't end up in New York or Washington.

I kneel briefly next to the body to be sure there's no pulse, and once I'm satisfied that Kozlov isn't playing possum, I put my gun away and get down to business. I've been told that the virus itself is in a single vial - and something that size could be anywhere. The search is going to take some time, and the more it takes, the harder getting out cleanly will be.

It doesn't take long before I'm getting frustrated. Only long practice in controlling my emotions keeps me from kicking something.

"If I were a germ-filled vial, where would I be?" I got into the habit of talking to myself during three weeks spent doing surveillance alone in the Balkans a few months ago, and though I'm working on breaking myself of it, I haven't yet.

Being shot is painful, and irritating, but ultimately futile, no matter what the mortal may think while he lies dead and vulnerable. He hates being vulnerable, but at least this is a mortal with no idea what he's dealing with. The return to life is nearly as painful as dying, for as brief a moment before the rush of it overcomes the pain, and his Quickening finishes reknitting his flesh.

He moves almost noiselessly, quiet enough to mistake his movements for the air handling system kicking over, or some part of the building settling and shifting. He has a knife in hand before he's caught up with his guest, and he is tempted to simply put it through his back and wait for him to wake up.

A smile crosses his face when the man mutters to himself, and he speaks loudly enough to be heard, anticipation singing through him at what reaction he might get. "Not somewhere just anyone will walk in and find it."

I spin around, training taking over when disbelief would have left me standing with my mouth hanging open. "What the _fuck_?" I demand, even as I reach for a knife of my own. A knife, since the bullets _didn't work_. I have the sick feeling that stabbing him won't be any more effective than shooting him was.

"I knew a man called Rasputin once. Did you know none of the attempts to kill him actually took?" Kronos smiles, cruel and razor-sharp. "He didn't survive me."

He toys with the knife in his hand, watching the man with the smile never fading. He knows it's unnerving, having that smile turned on a person. Not as unnerving as Methos' geuninely kind smile that masks a sadism that matches Kronos' own, but enough so that it makes people uneasy.

I'm beginning to think that I'm not going to survive him either. The Rasputin reference is something I'd ordinarily dismiss - if I hadn't checked his pulse myself.

"Kill me, and two countries' worth of intelligence agencies are going to be looking for you." It's a bluff, of course. The FSB might look for me, if I disappear, but they won't know to look for Kozlov, and neither will the CIA. It's still worth a try.

"Oh, I don't think so. And even if they do, I can promise they won't find me." If nothing else than because Kronos is very good at killing, and not leaving anyone anything to find, when he wants to. If he wanted to kill this man. The idea of using him as a test subject who couldn't die, or perhaps as a play-thing is honestly more appealing than killing him outright. Especially since he's not Immortal yet, and his Quickening will be practically worthless - it won't even give him the high he enjoys when he takes another Immortal's head.

"Don't be so sure about that," I advise him. "I found you, didn't I?" I don't wish that I hadn't - but I do wish I'd blown this entire building to smithereens and taken my chances on getting caught by the Russians.

"Only because you were lucky." Now, if it was bad luck or good luck that had led the agent to him, he's not going to argue, as it could easily be either, depending on one's point of view. And such things he'd rather leave to someone like his absent brother. "Maybe you're even lucky enough to find out where I've stashed my little collection."

It all depends on what exactly he does before Kronos puts the knife he has in hand through his chest. Though Kronos is actually fairly certain he'll do better to take the man down to his private domain regardless, and let the rest fall where it will. It's not like it's easy to find the real lab, no matter how good the agents or their technology. And by the time someone breaks in, he can have the vital parts of it packed and be gone, leaving nothing but dead lab animals and lethal booby-traps.

"That might be a little bit difficult with you and that knife around." Collection? It's worse than I'd thought. I don't know why Kozlov is collecting biological weapons, and I don't want to know. I just want to stop him. I don't bother pointing out that I'm good, not lucky. Being underestimated might mean surviving this, though I doubt it.

"Maybe." Kronos grins, moving with a lightning fast speed that comes from a lifetime of training, the knife going in smoothly, cutting through flesh like butter. He feels it scrape against bone as the hilt hits skin, his face inches from the agent's. "Or perhaps not. I think I'm going to enjoy you, my friend."

The knife is sharp enough that I don't feel it at first, even though I know it's coming. I manage to get one hand around his wrist, but there's no strength in my fingers, and even the pain in my chest is fading. Kozlov's words don't make any sense to me, but it really doesn't matter at this point. The last thing I notice before everything fades away is the taste of blood in my mouth.

Kronos catches his body as it begins to sag, tossing it over his shoulder before heading to the basement that is, at first glance, full of nothing but old crates and random trash. The detritus has been here for years, and suits his purposes admirably. It's only a numeric keypad in one corner, and the well-camoflagued door beside it that give away there's something more down here than first meets the eye.

His lab, his test subjects, and his own private rooms are all hidden behind this door - the last because it keeps him close to his work, and it's here he dumps the body on the floor. The dagger he removes, and cleans with meticulous care as he sits on the side of his bed, waiting for his guest to wake up.

My chest hurts, like I've been hit hard, and burns with a lack of oxygen. There's something odd about that, but I can't figure out what, even as I gasp for air - not at first. Then memory comes flooding back - Kozlov, the smallpox, the knife in my chest - and I force myself to a sitting position on what turns out to be the floor. Kozlov is only a few feet away, sitting on the bed and watching me. I don't need to look down to confirm the unbelievable suspicion in the back of my mind, but I can't help it. The hole in my shirt - and the blood on it - are impossible to deny, or to rationalize away.

"What the hell did you do to me?" I'm too shaken to bother with Russian, and there's really no point to it any more.

"I made you Immortal." Or rather, he triggered the potential, but Kronos isn't one to quibble about little details like that. "It's rather more interesting that way. No worries about pesky little things like if you'll survive what I'll do to you."

He responds in the same language the man's using - English is more likely his first language, and it sounds like American English rather than some other varient. It does make the fact that the man found the location of his mock-lab a bit more annoying, but not enough to ruin the fact he's now got an Immortal ignorant of everything that means to play with.

If it weren't for the blood on my shirt and the ache in my chest, I wouldn't believe it. I still don't want to - but disbelieving facts in evidence is never smart.

"Immortal. I guess that explains why shooting you was only a temporary fix." Of course, even a temporary fix is better than nothing, and I still have my guns, though I'm pretty sure I dropped my knife when I - that I dropped my knife upstairs.

Kronos smiled, still as any predator watching its prey. "More temporary than you might think. I'll get up before you make it out the door." Out the door of the lab, at least. It's no easier to get out than it is to get in, so his more intelligent test-subjects don't manage to escape. He's already discovered the one had learned how to unlatch its cage - it didn't last long enough to be returned to confinement.

"That's why they make guns that hold more than one bullet." Keeping my voice even is a struggle. I really don't want to think about what Kozlov meant when he promised to enjoy me - or about the fact that he apparently decided that he could make it last longer if I was immortal.

Chuckling, Kronos spread his arms, daring the man to shoot him. "Go ahead." That will, if nothing else, empty his guns of bullets, if he choses to waste them. And he'll still have his fun, even if he will have to replace his jacket and the shirt beneath - something a little irritating, but unremarkable.

This time, I shoot him in the head. Twice. I put two more in his chest for good measure, and the only reason I don't empty the clip into him is that I might need to buy myself a few minutes' respite later, if I can't find my way out of here. I'm not entirely sure how this whole immortality thing works, but logically, the more damage I do, the longer it should take to heal - and I'm good at doing damage.

I don't waste time checking for a pulse this time around. Instead, I retrieve the knife he was holding and head for the door. The lock's electronic, which is a problem. My best shot at getting through it is to overload it, and that will only work if it unlocks when overloaded. It's doable with a cell phone battery, if you have the right tools and training. I don't have the right tools, but I'm willing to give it a try anyway.

It doesn't hurt any less, and it doesn't take appreciably longer to heal from the new bullet holes than the previous ones - one of the advantages of being as old as he was, and with as many heads as he's taken. Kronos grins up at his ceiling a moment before sitting up again, shedding the ruined jacket. He'll have to replace the top blanket as well as his jacket and shirt, but that's not a worry.

"Do you know one of things I love about modern technology?" he asks as he leans against the doorway between his room and the lab. "It's so much easier to keep someone from running away after they try to kill you."

"I'll have to keep that in mind," I say sarcastically, dropping the pieces of my cell phone back in my pocket. I can't call for help - but I don't want to discard anything that might prove useful later. "Just in case I ever feel like holding a potential assassin captive, rather than disposing of them." Even to my own ears, my voice sounds tight, altered by tension. "What do you want, anyway?"

"Oh, nothing much, really. To have some fun, to create a virus capable of wiping out almost all of humanity, to rule the world." Kronos shrugs, smiling briefly. "Or, I suppose you meant from you. Your pain, your obedience. Someone to entertain me in more personal matters. An unwilling test subject for whatever I devise that I can test on an Immortal." Since he can't really test any infectious agent on him, no matter how newly Immortal he was.

There's nothing I can do about the first part from here, and I'm nauseatingly aware that there's precious little I can do about the second part, either. That doesn't mean I'm going to lie down and take it, though.

"And what's to stop me from shooting you, tying you down, and doing the same to you?" Aside from the fact that I don't torture people. It appeals a little too strongly to a side of myself I try very hard to ignore.

Kronos chuckles, and shrugs, moving away from the door with a casual, predatory grace, stalking his guest as he moves across the lab. "There are only so many bullets in your gun, and I don't share the codes to the lock on the door." If he wants to get out, cooperating with Kronos' whims are the only way.

"Want to bet I couldn't get it out of you eventually?" I've done it before - hurt people into telling me things I had to know - and those door codes definitely fall into that category. "Especially since, as you so helpfully pointed out, I don't have to worry about killing you by accident." To illustrate my point, I pull my gun again. "I doubt I have your expertise, but I'm a really fast learner."

"You could try." Kronos gives no sign he's paying any more attention to the gun than he has before. He doubts the man has the skill and stomach to put Kronos in enough pain to give him what he's looking for. Closing the distance rapidly, he reaches for the gun, his other hand coming up to grip the man's throat in a crushing grip. Tightly enough that he doubts the man can breathe, a grin on his face that's pure, cold amusement. "If I gave you the chance."

I can't breathe, and my vision's rapidly going black, but I can still shove the gun into him and pull the trigger. The wound isn't fatal, but it's the best I can manage at the moment. I doubt it will take him any longer to heal than it did to come back from the dead.

Hissing in momentary pain, Kronos wrenches the gun out of his guest's hands, thumbing the safety on before dropping it to the floor. He can't afford to toss it, and chance it hitting equipment. Dragging the man away from the door, and back toward his room. Right now he doesn't really want an experimental subject, despite his words, though later he might have something to use him for in that capacity.

He drops him to the floor, to let him heal from the damage Kronos has done to his throat. Looking down at him with a calculating expression.

I can feel my throat healing, breath coming easier. It's surreal, but reassuring. I've still got one gun left, and his knife, but I'm not about to pull either of them out right now. There will be a better opportunity later - I hope. Instead, I push myself up to a sitting position and glare at Kozlov, since talking is still beyond me.

The glare is a familiar sight, one he often has seen in defiant slaves and prisoners in the past before he shatters their wills, their minds, and their bodies. Never quite as fond of remaking someone into his loyal slave like Methos did with Cassandra, but capable of it when he put his mind to it.

"You look good down there." Kronos smiles, and crouches to put himself on eye-level with his unwilling guest. "You should get used to it."

He's close enough to kick, so I kick him, hard, and aimed to bring him crashing down to the floor. I know it's a bad idea, and that I'll pay for it in the end, but I'm not going to just lie here and let myself be tormented. Before I was a spy, I was an officer in the 82nd Airborne, and I have certain standards to live up to. Besides, I'm pissed off, and striking back pointlessly is better than not doing it at all.

Kronos reacts swiftly, backhanding the man even as he snarls at the pain from being kicked. There are some things he likes about the defiant and the spirited, often the same things he dislikes about them. He pushes back to his feet, glad for the speed at which he heals as he looks down at his guest.

I lick the blood off of my already-healed lip and call him a few bad words in Russian as I pick myself up.

"If you think I'm just going to let you do what you want, you should probably rethink this. Find someone who'll be a little more cooperative, make them Immortal."

"Who said I wanted someone cooperative?" Kronos smiles, ignoring the insults. He's heard worse over the centuries, and he's not at all worried about what his captive calls him. Not at the moment.

"Of course. I should have known." I take a step back, letting my body fall into a waiting stance. He's going to come at me again sooner or later, and when he does, I can at least try to be ready. His comments about Rasputin - and the fact that a lifetime of martial arts have no effect on his ability to get past my defenses - make me wonder just how long he's had to get good at killing people. It also makes me wonder how long I'm likely to live, assuming he can't just take back the gift he's given me.

Kronos can see the hints of curiosity in his captive's eyes, and the wariness in his stance. He merely smiles, and moves over to where his sword is resting on the low chest he keeps his clothes in. He doesn't really need anything so large, but right now, his knife is in the other man's possession, and the sword at least will serve the purpose he wants. And the spikes are effective as shock value.

The sword Kozlov picks up is as nasty-looking a weapon as I've ever seen, and the clear expertise with which he handles it is enough of a threat that I take two quick steps back, to give myself more room, and pull the gun I haven't been using. I don't aim it yet, but I feel much happier with it in my hand.

"That's an interesting choice of weapon. Why a sword?"

"You have my knife. And I like the old ways better." He'll use a gun, and happily, if the situation calls for it, and this one doesn't. Not when he has the man confined, and he can always keep getting back up until he runs out of bullets. That, and he doesn't keep guns in his lab.

"And just how old are those ways?" Maybe if I can keep him talking, I can keep him from killing me. For now. Sooner or later, he's going to get past my guard, and I'm going to wake up helpless. I really, really don't want that to happen - which means it's going to have to happen to him first.

"Old enough." Kronos moves with the same speed that he had earlier, though the sword requires a different technique to use to kill him, since he isn't trying to take off his head. It gives him a chance to shoot, but Kronos doubts he'll get a good enough shot to take him down.

He's fast, really fast, and I have to sacrifice aim for speed. I've never been a fan of machine guns, but I could wish I had one now, instead of the Desert Eagle that's been my backup piece since Sam Axe gave it to me last year. It's a good gun, and it's saved my life more than once, but I don't think it's going to be enough this time. Even as I fire, I'm going for his knife, and as he reaches me, I step towards him and do my best to at least cut him before he takes me down.

The bullets sting and burn, but it's the knife he keeps a careful eye on as he closes. The sword isn't as good in close quarters as the knife is, and he has no intention of dying again. He sidesteps the attempt to cut him, bringing his sword in to cut his captive to the spine, knowing just how painful a death it will be. He'll strip the man of his weapons once he's down.

I'm nothing if not familiar with pain, but this goes beyond even the knife-wound that killed me. I hit the floor at about the same time that the gun does, and if Kozlov hadn't done whatever it is he did, I would be happy to lie here and die quietly. Since I know I'm going to end up right back here before long - and with no chance to really fight back any longer - I manage to throw the knife. It's a clumsy throw, done underhanded, but it's the best I can do at the moment.

He hisses at the pain when the knife hits its mark in his thigh, reaching down to pull it out with a snarl. The best he can say about it is that it's not fatal, and will heal quickly enough on its own. Kronos limps back toward his chest, stripping his shirt off over his head, and using the fabric to clean his sword of the blood and gore on the blade. Setting it on the chest again before turning around to regard the body on the floor, and the spreading blood pool.

Kronos collects the weapons, leaving them piled on the chest with his sword. Stripping off the man's clothes is a little more difficult, the edges clinging to the wounds that are slowly healing. He hauls the body through the lab to one of the side rooms which he's equipped for human subjects, though he'd yet to acquire any. There's only the one restraint, a chain bolted to the cement wall with a manacle at the end he locks around the man's wrist after dumping the body on the cot.

Pulling the chair over, he leans back, his boots on the end of the cot as he waits, watching the man heal and draw in that first gasping breath of returning life.

Waking up naked, in pain, and chained to the wall is bad enough that it almost makes the disorienting realization that I've just come back from the dead unimportant. Almost. Kozlov is within arm's reach, but for now I ignore him in favour of checking the strength of the chain and the tightness of the manacle. It's clear, though, that I'm not getting out of here without breaking some bones, if I can even manage it at all. When I've finished, I look back at Kozlov. There's no point in curling up, in trying to preserve my modesty, so I don't bother. "I think it's your move." Unless I want to try grabbing his legs and dumping him on his ass. At this point, though, that would probably be counterproductive.

"My name is Kronos." He doesn't care if the man knows his real name, he has no intention of letting him leave here alive... well, perhaps when he moves his lab, he'll move him as well. In a box, like the rest of the equipment. "You never told me yours."

That the man hasn't tried to actually fight back this time is gratifying, and makes him think the man's not just defiant, but likely well trained. Trained enough to recognize when fighting is futile.

"Michael." It's all he's getting. Kronos - Koslov - whatever his name actually is, he's a top-grade psychopath. I've seen his kind before - the sort of men who slit children's throats in front of their parents because it's the most effective way to punish them, who delight in others' pain - and I'm not giving him anything that might lead him back to my mom and my little brother. "I'd say it was nice to meet you, but lying's pretty much pointless at this juncture."

Kronos smiles, taking his feet off the cot to stand up. At least Michael knows that much, and he's not concerned about the lack of a surname. It's not as if it would be useful, except perhaps to find those he cares about. Not that he needs them, and not that they'll survive when he's done with the virus, anyway.

He leans over the cot, watching Michael with a cold expression. "You live to entertain me. When I'm done with you, if you're lucky, I'll kill you."

"You'll forgive me if I don't resign myself to being your play toy just yet." Somehow, I get the feeling that Kronos' toys have a much worse time of it than Fiona Glennane's do. He certainly has almost all of the advantages. The only one I can even think of is that it's unlikely he's had the sort of formal training I have. Experience probably fills in most, if not all, of those gaps - but I might know something experience hasn't taught him, and I might be able to get out of here yet. It's a very slim chance, but it's better than nothing.

Chuckling, Kronos gives Michael a cruel look. "Oh, please don't. It'll be more entertaining to break you."


	2. Remold

Methos doubts MacLeod is really aware that he recieved the bulk of both Quickenings, bits of Kronos and Silas swirling in his brain as he lays curled on the concrete where he'd collapsed earlier. He's only glad that MacLeod has to deal with Caspian's, as the memories he has to sort through and settle are more than enough. Silas isn't that bad, almost peaceful, so long as Methos ignores the parts that involve war or any prolonged human contact.

It's the memories from Kronos that are more vivid, and chaotic. Images of labs that he can identify as more recent, flashes of violence and pain and cruelty that he almost welcomes as much as he tries to dislike. A shiver runs through his body at ones he thinks are more recent. A man, bloodied and broken, and half-mad from isolation. Exposure to Kronos alone is enough to drive just about anyone mad - though it's not half as bad as what he and Kronos could have done together.

He thinks he can even find the victim - an Immortal, of that much he's certain - if he looks deep enough in the base. There are places Kronos had kept to himself, that are hidden behind doors that Methos could dredge up the codes to if he focused. And somewhere in there, he suspects is a forgotten play-toy, a living subject for whatever horrors Kronos came up with.

Listening for a long moment as he forces the memories to still enough to extract the information he needs, Methos is glad to hear nothing but the drip and lap of water. Cassandra and MacLeod are both gone, then, and he should have the chance to locate this other Immortal without worrying one of them will follow him.

He gets to his feet slowly, picking up his sword after a moment, moving back up the ramp, and heading for the main area. Somewhere there is his coat, and the sheath sewn into it for his sword. He doesn't want to startle the man - Michael is the name that swims out of the memories that still haven't entirely settled. Methos hesitates a moment before leaving the coat tossed over the table that had once held the weapons of the other three as well. Just the night before, and now never again.

It's not too difficult to get through the warren of corridors and the three seperate doors that isolate Kronos' toy from the rest of the base, and the rest of the world. Beyond that last door is a set of rooms that are dimly lit by a single line of cheap florescent lights along the ceiling when Methos flips the switch. There's no sign of Michael beyond the wash of Presence, not at first glance.

"Michael?" he calls softly, hoping not to startle the man. "Michael, are you in here?"

I can feel the humming in my head that tells me when Kronos is about to make an appearance. The horror of being glad to see him is an old one, but stronger this time. I don't know where he's been, but he's been gone long enough that I'd probably have starved to death fairly soon. And come back to do it all over again. I'd known going into intelligence work that this sort of thing - being taken and broken again and again - was highly possible, but none of my instructors at Fort Benning or Langley or anywhere else had been able to dream up what I've been through in the past four years, or what surviving it has done to me. Even I'm not entirely sure of that last. If I ever get out of here, I'll have to work on assessing the damage. For the moment, I have to get through whatever Kronos is about to do now.

Except that the voice calling my name isn't his. The sharp spike of hope and fear that sings through me is dizzying; getting to my feet almost leads to a fall. I don't answer, though. For all I know, Kronos is somewhere behind this newcomer, and this is some sort of novel twist on the game he's been playing with me. Sometimes, I think that if I were to stop fighting he'd kill me - but I don't want to die, not yet. I want to get *out*.

"Michael, I need you to answer me." Methos doesn't care if he speaks, or if he comes to him, because he isn't entirely certain he wants to go search the rooms to find him. If Michael leaves the rooms, and doesn't know how to get through the warren behind him, or doesn't have the codes, he could spend hours or days looking for him, and trying to get him out of here safely.

At least, that's the reason he's clinging to, and ignoring the whisper in the back of his mind that it's because he wants to hold onto what he has left of Kronos. The sword he'll collect as he leaves, before the Watchers have a chance to come in and grab it for themselves. This man who Kronos had kept as some sort of pet or toy or maybe some personal project.

"Who the hell are you?" It's rude, but I don't care. "Where's Kronos?"

He almost gives Michael his current alias, but bites that back in favor of honesty for the moment. "Methos. Kronos is..." He pauses, drawing a deep breath. "Kronos is dead."

Saying it aloud made it more real than even the memories he carried, the memories he needed to settle, to let him sort out his own mind. Methos closed his eyes a moment, listening to the sounds around him to make sure Michael didn't take advantage of his action to rush him, or slip past him through the open door.

The name doesn't mean anything, but if he thinks Kronos is dead, it means I've got a limited window to get out of here. Part of my mind is wondering why Kronos hasn't simply come back to life and taken care of Methos, whoever he is, but it's a very small part. The rest of me is focused on getting free.

"Not for long." I push away from the wall and head towards Methos. "We need to get out of here, before he comes back." It sounds crazy, but I don't care if he believes me or not. If he doesn't, I can always leave him here to find out how wrong he is.

That statement suggests that Kronos didn't even give Michael any real idea about how Immortality worked. It's going to be a surprise for him, then, to see Kronos' body, since Methos needs to collect Kronos' sword. And the only way to do that is go up to where the body is, and with Michael. He can't let the man out of his sight, not so recently Immortal, without any idea what that means.

"I have the codes to open the doors, stay close. This entire place is a bloody maze." Methos looks at Michael a moment, and asks, quietly, "Are you cold?" The base isn't kept particularly warm, and clearly Kronos didn't believe in the need to provide Michael more than some very basic clothing. Probably the least expensive he could find, since Methos had a distanct impression Kronos tended to shred what clothing he ever gave Michael.

The question is so unexpected that I have to think about it for a moment before I can answer, and even after thinking about it, I can't come up with anything more than a shrug. I've gotten used to the temperature, and it's not like I'm about to get sick. Methos doesn't look like much - he certainly doesn't look like he could handle Kronos - but if he has the codes, I'm not getting more than three feet from him until I'm out of here. Maybe two feet.

Methos watches Michael out of the corner of his eye as he leads the way through the maze, through one door, and then another. "I just need to collect a couple things before we leave. So the clean-up crew doesn't make off with them." He gives Michael a momentary smile that's more a wry twist of the lips than anything else.

The corridors outside the warren Kronos had hidden Michael in - and no doubt hidden other things in that the Watchers do not need to find - are at least less confusing, and Methos picks up his pace a little, collecting his coat from the table where he's left it. The weight of the wool and the sword hidden inside it are comforting and familiar, and he looks over at Michael again.

"One more thing, and then we're gone. Are you sure you don't want a coat? I'm sure I can find one around here for you if you'd like."

"It might be a good idea," I agree after a moment. This entire episode seems so surreal as to be dreamlike; I'm not entirely sure that I won't wake up right back down there again at any moment. Still, dream or no, I should probably play by the rules. I'm not sure where I am, exactly, but the current state of my attire is likely to attract attention anywhere.

Methos knows where Silas has his coat, at least, and while it will be too big to fit Michael properly, at least it will be warm, and hide the blood stains on his clothing. It's a work of a moment to fetch it, and hand it to Michael, though there's a twinge of guilt that he's already giving Silas' belongings to someone else, and the Quickening hasn't even settled. Though he knows Silas wouldn't be entirely upset. After all, they shared everything, and if Methos wanted something for a new pet, Silas never would have said no.

"The other item is upstairs, it'll only take a moment on the way out." Methos' smile is a little more strained now, and his shoulders hunch a bit as he thinks about approaching even the body of Kronos. The one of his brothers who'd been the most like him, no matter the differences between them.

"I'd recommend hurrying." Keeping up anything like a normal facade is a strain almost beyond bearing, but I can wait to break down until I'm out of here, until I'm alone. I've waited this long; I can last another hour or two. "You really don't want to be here when Kronos gets back."

He doesn't reply to that, only flicking a concerned look at Michael before he leads the way up and out toward the walk where Kronos' body and head lay, one hand still wrapped around the hilt of his sword. Methos crouches down, studiously avoiding looking at the open eyes of his dead brother as he pries cold fingers apart, and picks up the sword.

"My car's not too far, and I have an apartment in Paris, if you'd like someplace safe to stay for a while." Methos looks over at Michael, studying him for any reaction to Kronos' death, and the unmoving body sprawled on the walkway.

Apparently, even Kronos couldn't survive beheading. My knees want to give out, but I absently refuse them permission. I can't look away from Kronos. I've wanted him dead for so long - and now that he is, I feel hollow, stripped from the inside out. 

"He's really dead." I wish I knew how I felt about that.

"Permanently, yes." Methos spoke quietly, keeping his voice even with the long practice at burying his emotions when he needed to. "We won't have long before the clean-up crew arrive, and I'm not in the mood to deal with them. I wouldn't suggest you stay for them, either, they're just as likely to kill you as anything else."

He wouldn't put it past the Watchers to shoot Michael and take off his head simply because he was here. Because when they finally venture in here - and he doubts it really will be soon, but no need to take chances - they won't be sure Michael isn't a threat to them.

It's probably a safe assumption that taking my head off would kill me permanently as well, and that's something I'd like to avoid.

"Where are we?" I'm going to have a hell of a time explaining a four year absence to my employers. If I bother to go back. It's hard to worry about Serbian gunrunners and Moroccan drug dealers after four years of Kronos. I'm going to have to borrow some money from Methos. I used to know phone numbers that would get me my handlers, day or night, but I'm certain they were changed after I disappeared.

"Bordeux. An old submarine base." That Kronos had no doubt modified to suit his tastes, though one wouldn't know it from looking at the outside. Methos was glad he'd gotten the bulk of Kronos' Quickening now, or he suspects Michael would still be down in those handful of rooms he'd been in before. "There are hotels here, but I wouldn't recommend checking in under any name someone might look for you by." And he wasn't planning on using any of the aliases the Watchers had of his, or he'll have them on his doorstep all too soon.

That's worth a laugh, but I can't quite summon one. "I think I'll be all right. I used to get paid to stay under the radar." I look over at him. "Why did he tell you I was down there? I would have thought - I'd have expected him to leave me down there." To starve to death over and over, and lose what remains of my soul. Not that there's much to lose, not after four years.

Methos is almost reluctant to tell him the truth, but it's something he has to learn eventually, in order to survive. "He didn't tell me, and I'll explain the rest later. Right now, I would like to get out of here." Away from the memories of his brothers, away from the knowledge he'll eventually have to face the Watchers about what he was doing here, and his careful hiding of the fact he's Immortal.

"You're not the only one." I fall into step behind him, wrapping the borrowed coat tightly around me. I think I'm starting to get cold, but I'm not sure. Everything still seems not quite real.

"Where are we going?" The minute the question is out of my mouth, I want to take it back - but I don't want to be left alone, not yet. An hour or so of privacy, yes. To be alone? No. Not that I have any reason to think that Methos will let me tag along. If he won't - well, if he won't, I'll find Sam and call in every marker he's ever owed me.

"A hotel here in Bordeux tonight, Paris in the morning after I talk to someone." After he talks to MacLeod, preferably on Holy Ground. He doesn't want to deal with the Highlander for any longer than he has to, but he knows the man will think he's owed an explanation, and giving him something will keep him away from Methos long enough for him to sort Michael out somewhat. "I have an apartment there, it's large enough for two."

Not under Adam Pierson's name, and he has several other properties elsewhere that he thinks might be good places to retreat to. Perhaps the house in Wales, or the villa in Sicily. Both have large enough properties surrounding them that he never has to worry about neighbors wondering about the screams of someone in the grip of nightmares, as he's sure Michael will have, eventually.

The relief of not being left on my own threatens to take my feet out from under me, but I manage not to do more than stumble.

"Thanks." The word sounds foreign in my mouth, as if it belongs to a language I used to know and then forgot.

Methos reaches out to steady Michael when he sees him stumble, the gesture not nearly as automatic as it might appear. "You're welcome." He isn't doing this for altruistic reasons, perhaps, but that doesn't mean he doesn't want to make sure Michael is as well as he can be after being Kronos' for however long he has been. A timeframe he's not actually sure about, not from the memory fragments.

"How long has he had you?" The question is quiet and asked as gently and levely as he can manage.

"Four years." It's a guess, but I'm fairly certain it's accurate. I've always had a good internal clock. Whether I'm right or not, I suppose, remains to be seen. "I think, anyway. It's not like I've had access to a calendar." I bury my hands in my pockets and shrug. "One of the hazards of the job."

He's mildly surprised Michael is as coherent and sane as he appears to be, after four years of Kronos. Even if he was off by a few months, it's still almost a miracle, if Methos were inclined to believe in such. "Any amount of time spent with Kronos seems longer than it is," he offers as they step outside into the slowly gathering twilight. He knows the quickest way to most of the decent hotels in Bordeux, and he makes his way toward one that is most of the way across the city from the one where MacLeod and Cassandra should be.

"You can say that again." It's hard not to flinch when stepping outside, and after a few steps I know I'm in trouble. I want to keep moving, but it's all suddenly too much. I lean up against the wall and close my eyes, trying to overcome the feeling that the entire world is about to fall in on top of me.

Methos pauses when he realizes Michael isn't right behind him, turning to scan the street. He readily spots him several feet behind, leaning against a wall and far paler than even being out of the sun for years would account for. Pale, and now that there's adequate light, Methos can see how thin the man is - and from the bone structure underneath, shouldn't be.

"Michael?" He injects a note of concern into his voice, coming back over to where the younger Immortal is leaning against the wall. "Are you all right?"

"Give me a minute. I used to be a little claustrophobic. Apparently, it's reversed itself." It's a glib way of saying that, after four years of darkness and near-solitude, I'm close to being overwhelmed by the fact that the world still exists. 

Gradually, the worst of the near-panic eases, and I can push myself up off the wall and keep going. Even after four years, the instincts I spent a career developing aren't entirely gone, but I have to ignore them. If I pay too much attention to what's going on around me, I'm going to go under. Instead, I keep my head down, my eyes focused on the pavement in front of me. It's unnerving in its own way - like voluntarily putting on a blindfold - but it prevents me from getting overloaded and if there should happen to be someone in Bordeaux I used to know, they hopefully won't notice me.

Keeping a careful eye on Michael, Methos continues toward the hotel he has in mind slowly, so if he needs to stop for Michael to collect himself again, it won't be several feet past where Michael stops. Once there, he pays the clerk well to ignore names, and check them into one of the suites that was empty. Nodding Michael toward the elevetor. "Or would you rather the stairs?"

"The elevator's fine." I want to be in the privacy of a hotel room as quickly as possible. I want - need - to let go of the tight control I'm using to keep myself upright, mobile, and rational, and I don't want to do it in public.

Methos nods, and hits the call button, glad when the elevator doors open right away. The room is four stories up, and he's glad for the quiet when he opens the door. For Michael's sake, as much as for his own, as he's really not sure he wants anything to do with people at the moment. Other than Michael.

I should get in the shower. I should turn on the television and at least try to start catching up on what I've missed in the past four years. I should call my handler, or maybe my mother. Instead, I sit down on the closest chair and bury my face in my hands. I know I'm going to break down soon enough, and that it's going to be ugly, but being out of there is still tinged with enough unreality to keep everything from crashing in on me at once.

Methos set Kronos' sword carefully in the closet, and hung his coat up as well, carefully not saying anything to Michael yet. Giving him space if he needs it, and trying to drag back the mindset he needs to survive in the modern world without Kronos at his shoulder to whisper Death back into existance. Contemplating a shower, and possibly seeing if he can pay room service enough to send someone with sizes to buy new clothing for them both. He knows he has bank accounts with enough funds to purchase the hotel if he wants to, so there ought to be enough.

"Do you want the shower first?" He looks over to Michael, finally speaking. He'll call room service once they've sorted out showers and such.

I do, and I don't. It's much easier to keep up the pretense that everything is all right when there's someone else in the room. I've spent most of my life lying to the people around me. It's instinctive, and it's a thousand times easier than lying to myself. Besides, bathrooms have mirrors, and I'm not sure I'm ready for one yet.

"Yes," I say anyway, shoving my doubts aside. If I lose it, I lose it; all I can do is try not to. "Thank you." After a moment, I add, "I don't want to put these clothes back on afterwards. If you can loan me enough for new clothes, I can pay you back after I get access to my accounts. The ones that I won't trigger alarms at Langley by accessing, anyway." The Swiss will hold an account in stasis for decades, fortunately.

"Actually, I was going to have them send someone to go buy new clothes for both of us." Since he can afford to, and he doesn't want to put the clothes he's wearing back on after his shower, either.

"I'd give you my sizes, but I don't think it would help much." Even without access to a mirror, I know I've lost weight. Suddenly, the light, insouciant tone I've been struggling so hard to maintain is just too much effort. I've been wanting - needing - answers for the past four years, and now that it looks like I might be able to get them, I shut down? I may lose it yet - but I'm going to get some damned answers first.

"Who the hell was Kronos, anyway?" It's as good a place to start as any, and maybe the answer will put off the necessity of stepping alone into that bathroom to face myself in the mirror.

Methos is quiet a moment, looking down at the floor a moment. "An Immortal, a psychopath, and a very old evil." Not as old as Methos, nor as evil as he could be if he were given the right circumstances. He looks up at Michael after a moment, his expression utterly blank - a combination of exhaustion and grief he doesn't want to share right now.

"You say Immortal like it's supposed to mean something." That Kronos was a psychopath I already know, all too well, and I can't help wondering what he did to Methos, that the man's eyes look as empty as I feel inside.

"It does. It's also an explanation that can wait until we've both had a chance to shower, and have dinner." Methos doesn't want to talk about it right now, and he isn't sure he wants to have to explain the whole damned mess Immortality's become at all. He has to, but that doesn't make it any more appealing.

"Fair enough. Since you offered, I'll go first." It's been a long time since I was last in a good hotel, but I'm sure that they haven't changed that much, and investigation proves me right. There are still fluffy white bathrobes hung up for guests' convenience, and the towels are luxurious enough to provide a distraction until I'm actually in the bathroom with the door closed behind me. Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror is almost enough to make me bolt - the face is a stranger's, and I can't meet my own eyes - but I've always been self-disciplined, and I manage to strip off, though my hands are shaking by the time I finish. The heat of the water quickly steams up the mirror, which makes things a little easier to bear, but only a little.

Methos lets himself relax a little once the door of the bathroom is shut, finding a chair and sinking into it. Waiting a long moment before he reached a hand over to the phone on the table next to him, calling room service. It doesn't take too much effort - though it does take an exorbitant sum - to get them to send someone to do his shopping for him. That they will at all is why he'd chosen this hotel over others that are far enough away from MacLeod and Cassandra to avoid them.

The water in the shower is hot enough to sting, and by shutting my mind off to everything but the physical, I'm able to wash my hair - it needs cutting, badly - and body before reaction overwhelms me. I want to curl up into a ball and sit in the bottom of the shower until the past four years wash away down the drain, and I'm not sure which is worse - my anger at what's happened to me, or my anger at myself for letting it happen, for whatever it was in my makeup that made Kronos decide to play with me rather than just kill me outright. I don't realize I've punched the wall until pain throbs bright and alive up my arm, and I see blood dripping into the water at my feet.

He listens to the running water, not moving from the chair until he hears something hit the wall. Methos starts, half out of his chair before he checks his movement, walking over to the door a bit slower than he'd started. Knocking on the door lightly, his voice carefully and deliberately bland, with just a hint of concern. "Everything all right, Michael?"

Methos' voice startles me - I'd almost forgotten that he was here - no, not that he was here, but where I am in the first place. Flexing my healing hand - and torn between relief and dismay that whatever Kronos did to me seems to have survived his death - I push myself straight and turn off the shower. The tile is cracked, but I can't bring myself to care.

"I'm fine." My voice sounds odd, like it belongs to someone else. I've made it as far as a towel when my knees decide that sitting is better than standing. I can't catch my breath, but I can't manage to be concerned about that, either.

He doubts Michael's entirely fine, but Methos is reluctant to open the door and make sure. Not unless the younger man invites him into the room. Even when he hears the thud of someone hitting the floor, he hesitates before testing the handle. "Michael?"

Even though he knows that Michael will heal from any injury he takes, he's still concerned about if he's fallen. For one, there's always the concern about blood on the floor, and Methos really doesn't like to clean up blood if he can avoid it.

I know I should answer him - I even know that I shouldn't be panicking, that there's nothing going on now that wasn't going on five minutes ago - but the small, detached portion of my brain that's aware of these facts doesn't seem to be able to connect with the part that can't seem to do anything, other than sit on the floor in a hotel bathroom and shake.

The lack of an answer makes Methos grimace, and open the door. Michael is, as he thought, on the floor, and shaking. With panic, most likely, and reaction. A reaction that Methos is just as glad has been delayed until they're safely in a hotel room rather than at the damned submarine base, or out on the street.

"Michael." He keeps his voice level and firm, crouching down within arm's reach, but not actually reaching out to touch Michael. "Michael, look at me."

I don't want to look up. I really don't want to open my eyes, because if I do, I'll be in a hotel bathroom in Bordeaux rather than in Russia trying to track down a stolen vial of smallpox, and the past four years will be entirely real. This is the first time I've ever understood my mother's urge to stick her head in the sand and pretend that nothing is wrong. Except that I've been trained to accept unacceptable situations, and the worst part of this one seems to be over. And I've never been able to give up, or play ostrich. Most of the time, it's a good trait to have.

"I'm all right." It's probably the least-convincing lie I've ever told, but at least I got it out. After another second, I manage to lift my head. I still can't stop shaking, but I'll take what I can get for the moment.

Methos gives Michael a look that is better than words to convey that while he doesn't believe Michael, he's not going to refute the lie outright. That Michael has been able to pull himself together this much is enough to convince him that while the younger Immortal isn't all right, he will be. Given enough time and distance from what's happened to him.

"Are you able to get up on your own?" He doesn't offer to help him up, not unless Michael wants it, though he's tempted to help him get on his feet regardless. Tempted to finish what Kronos had started, and make Michael into a loyal pet rather than a broken toy.

"Eventually. It's not my legs that are broken." Gallows humour might not be appropriate, but it's all I can manage at the moment, and that includes getting up. "At least, not any more." And apparently there are still some things that are just too raw to be funny. "Why the hell didn't he just kill me?" I know the answer, but I still can't help asking.

Shrugging, Methos watches Michael with an expression that is nearly blank, a combination of exhaustion and lack of desire to probe at the memories of Kronos for anything resembling reasons. "It's not in his nature to kill those he's not done toying with." And it wasn't like Kronos to actually keep a toy alive as long as he kept Michael alive, even an Immortal. Unless he'd had it in mind to share Michael with Methos once he was convinced Methos was truly returned to the Horsemen, and not just pretending in order to survive.

"Give me the fucking Iranians any day." I mean it, too. Getting your head cut off by a jihadi with a big knife sucks, but at least it doesn't go on and on for years at a time. Even a Russian prison would have been better, and that's saying something.

"I'd rather live." Methos stood up, offering a hand to help Michael off the floor as well. "Kronos didn't know how to adapt to the modern world; someone would have killed him eventually." Something he had to remind himself of, to keep himself from feeling the guilt he could, from having done what he could to make sure that Kronos lost to MacLeod. "Something that can only be enjoyed with your head still on your shoulders."

I let Methos pull me up, trying to resist the urge to let myself trust him entirely. It's probably a futile struggle - I know the psychology of trauma as well as any psychiatrist, but it doesn't keep it from working on me as well as it does on anyone else.

"I haven't enjoyed much of anything, lately." Except that isn't entirely true. Kronos was far too inventive - and knew way too much about shame and human motivations - not to be sure I enjoyed myself from time to time. Another year or so, and I'd have been twisted beyond repair, if I'm not already.

A flicker of knowledge crosses Methos' face, and it's from his own memories rather than Kronos'. When he and Kronos had played with victims, before they'd even found Silas or Caspian, neither of them had been fools enough to leave the victims with nothing but pain and misery. Especially not at their hands. It only ensured they'd find the individual dead, or willing to do anything to kill their tormentors.

Though he kept the comment at the tip of his tongue unsaid, even in one of the dead languages he knew. Instead, he kept a hand on Michael as he helped him back out to the room. With any luck, room service would be up soon with the new clothes, and with dinner.

I know I should be thinking more clearly than this. I should be trying to get in touch with my handlers, or at the very least trying to get my hands on a gun. I shouldn't be content to be helped, and I really shouldn't be focusing on the touch of Methos' hand like it's the only thing anchoring me to a world that I'm not sure I can function in any longer.

He gets Michael to the chair he was sitting in earlier, preferring to settle him there rather than on the bed. If Michael moves to the bed after, he'll let him, but for now, he thinks this will be better. Methos drags the other chair so it's closer to the table, looking up at the knock on the door.

"That should be clothing and dinner." He'd ordered rice and steamed vegetables, since he's not sure how long Michael's been without food, and even an Immortal will suffer if they eat too quickly or too much after prolonged starvation.

It is what he thinks it is, the young woman offering to push the cart inside, which Methos politely declines. He's not forcing Michael to deal with more than him at the moment, though he'll have to get him outside and learning how to cope with the world again eventually.

The knock at the door has me looking around for anything that can be used as a weapon, and while the hypervigilance is a bad sign, the fact that at least some of my instincts have survived is a good one. I think.

The smell of food makes my mouth water, and I'm both reminded of how hungry I am and suddenly nauseous all at once. The idea of clothes that I can be fairly sure won't just end up sliced to ribbons is more appealing and offers less of a chance that I might throw up. Besides, it's been long enough since I had hot food that I think letting it cool down a little is a safer option, so far as my digestion is concerned.

"Clothing first?" I want to kick myself for asking instead of asserting myself, but only for a minute. Methos hasn't shown any hint that he means me harm, and it won't hurt to let myself trust him. It's not like I have other options at the moment.

Closing the door once he has the cart with food and clothing inside, Methos looks over at Michael, to make sure he isn't in the corner or off the chair. It's a good sign, he thinks, that he's not so tightly wound he's moved to a more defensible position. And that he's asking questions, rather than waiting for direction. Not entirely broken, then, he hopes.

"Certainly." Methos fishes the bags off the bottom of the cart, checking them for sizes, and setting the ones which are in the size he hopes will fit Michael on the bed nearest him. "I need to shower before dinner, if you're all right on your own for a few minutes?"

He wants to rinse off more than the blood that is dried on his hands and arms, to clense himself in a manner he hasn't exactly held as applicable to modern life until now. Ritually scrub the darkness and blood of the last few weeks off him so it won't taint the coming weeks and months.

"I think I can handle it." Before, that would have been sarcasm. Now, it's nothing but the truth. Fortunately, there's clothing to focus on, and after that, food. That's gonna take a while. This is my first experience with long term starvation, but I've read the literature. After a moment, I sigh. "Mind leaving the door open, though?" I really don't want to be closed off and alone right now.

Methos looks over at Michael as he pauses at the door to the bathroom, considering a moment. "I can."

Leaving the door open means he doesn't have the privacy he'd like, but he'll have some measure of it with the curtain drawn, and the water on. He sheds the sweater and jeans he'd been wearing, kicking them to the far corner before stepping into the shower. Turning on the water as hot as it will go, ignoring the risk of scalding, as he knows the burns will heal almost as quickly as they come up.

The blood doesn't take long to remove from his hands, but it takes longer to scrub himself from head to toe, to feel like he's removed enough of the grief and the guilt to be tolerable company. He still doesn't want to let go of either Kronos' sword or Michael, but he doubts he'll want to let go of what he has left of Kronos for decades. Perhaps lifetimes.

I manage to get some clothes on, even though my hands don't seem to want to stop shaking and I'm nowhere near ready to face the mirror again. I've lost weight, and muscle, but that's actually reassuring for some reason - probably because it's the only physical proof I have that the last four years even happened. I should take the next few minutes to poke around the hotel room, to get some clues as to who Methos is and what, beyond pulling me out of Kronos' lair, he actually wants from me. I've been out of the game for a while, but I was a spy for long enough to know that everyone wants *something*. Instead, I sit down on the bed and think about turning on the news. In the end, it's just that little bit too much, so I stare at the phone instead, and wonder what my mom would think if I called her now.

Turning off the water, Methos listens for sound in the rest of the room for a moment before he pushes the curtain back, reaching for one of the towels the hotel's provided. Soft and plush, a reminder of the modern world and the luxuries it takes for granted. He pulls on one of the bathrobes before going back out into the room itself, opening the containers with the food in them.

He looks over at Michael only after that, giving the man a moment more of something resembling privacy before he intrudes again, draws his attention outside himself. "Dinner, Michael?" Using his name to get his attention, and make him focus on something other than whatever is going on in his head.

"Yeah. And maybe some explanations?" It's probably better not to call my mom, not right now. I'm not ready for all of the questions, or the emotional blackmail. Or the paperwork my bosses are going to dump on me once they find out I'm still breathing. Sam Axe was presumed dead for three weeks once, and it took him three months to finish the paperwork.

"About?" Methos is willing to explain, at least some of it, but he needs to know what Michael is looking for. And hopes that what Michael is looking for doesn't include how well Methos knew Kronos. Or worse, what the relationship between them was. Because he's not sure how to explain that in a way that doesn't result in him short his head at some point while he sleeps.

"The whole immortality thing would be a good place to start." I push myself up off the bed and cross to the chair, sliding it back and around so that the wall is directly behind me. It was habit before Kronos; it's nearly a compulsion now. "Is it going to wear off, now that Kr - now that he's dead?" I'm not sure what's worse, being scared, or being angry about being scared. I thought I'd given up feeling like this when I walked out of my father's house.

"No." Methos brought the other chair around to the far side of the table from Michael, setting the rice and vegetables on the table along with two plates. He's as glad for the simple meal as he's sure Michael's stomach will be, if for different reasons. "It's not something that you can pass on, it's already inherent in an individual. Kronos didn't make you Immortal, he triggered it. Likely deliberately."

Even without Kronos' memories, he'd know it was done deliberately, as it's the sort of thing he'd taught his brother was an effective tool to start breaking someone who could become Immortal. By example more than by actively teaching, but still. He'd proven it effective, and Kronos had merely followed his example, in his own vicious and cruel fashion.

"It would have happened anyway?" That's almost as unbelievable as the fact that it happened at all. I can count half a dozen incidents in the last year before Kronos alone that nearly led to my death, and the thought of coming back to life in some of those situations is bad enough that I'm not sure if Kronos wasn't the better of two evils after all. Then I realize that I've been staring at the food for the past few seconds without making any move to take it, and change my mind. I also make the deliberate effort to help myself to the rice and vegetables. It shouldn't feel so much like a victory, but it does anyway.

Methos waits until Michael has gotten what he wants of the food before filling his plate, making sure he's not taking too much. He's starved before, and he knows what it's like when there's food again. The desire to take more than the body can handle, and the illness after. His own plate he heaps a generous portion of the rice and vegetables onto, willing to take shameless advantage of the abundance.

"Eventually, yes, if you'd died a violent death. Most poisons, illness, and complications of aging don't do the trick; no one knows why it works that way, only that it does. Every Immortal's first death is violent, whether the violence is inflicted by other humans, or by natural disaster or foolishness."

"Yeah, I wasn't exactly in the line of work that lends itself to death by natural causes." Though I suppose I should be grateful that the Russians are more fond of bullets these days than of poisons. "How many of us are there?"

Making myself eat slowly is an entirely different kind of torture, but I'm managing, at least so far. I really want a steak, but I know better than to even attempt it.

That's something that Methos hasn't had a real answer for ever in his life. Even if the Watchers were able to keep track of every new Immortal, they wouldn't be able to keep track of every one of the oldest Immortals well enough to get a true count. "Several thousand, though I'm not certain of an exact number. And there are always new Immortals finding themselves waking up when they should be dead."

He takes a bite of his food, glad for the lack of meat in what he has, after the diet of the last several weeks. It helps to distance himself from his brothers once more, even with them dead.

"And beheading's the only way to keep one of us dead? Remind me to avoid the Middle East for the foreseeable future." I put my fork down and sit back, taking a break from the food to give myself time to get used to it. "Is that why K- he had a sword? I'd think a machete would work just as well, and be a hell of a lot less conspicuous."

"He had a sword because it was more than just a tool for removing other Immortal's heads." Methos drew a deep breath, closing his eyes a moment. "Almost every Immortal I've ever known carries a sword. Only a few have not, and of those, only one has survived any appreciable length of time without one." He opened his eyes to meet Michael's gaze once more, his expression distant. "Darius spent almost all his time on holy ground, only venturing off when war came close to his church in Paris.

"The rest of us carry swords because some idiot took the game of a bored old man and the three he called brothers far too seriously, and lived to spread it as the purpose of the existance of Immortals. So younger ones think they exist to play a sadistic game that pits them against each other in an effort to take each other's heads and the Quickenings that come with that loss."

"That's....possibly the craziest thing I've ever heard in my life." And I spent three years in the Balkans during the worst of the conflicts there. Picking up my fork again, I shake my head. I'm not unfamiliar with games that have deadly consequences - I've spent my entire adult life playing what is still called the Great Game - but to waste eternal life on an endless series of grudge matches? It's ridiculous. "How did Darius get by without playing? You mentioned holy ground?"

"He didn't always avoid the Game, but once he started, he refused to leave his church with another Immortal. He refused to fight." Methos has been tempted by that sort of safety on occasion, but never enough to commit to staying on holy ground for more than a few decades at a time. He might not like to fight, but he still can't imagine giving it up entirely for a life of peace, not when the game other Immortals play is his own fault. It feels wrong to abandon his own creation entirely.

In my experience, refusing to fight only means getting hurt or killed that much faster. Of course, fighting didn't do me much good this time around. I'd think that this Darius had the right idea - except that he's clearly dead too.

"Let me guess. Someone decided they weren't going to take no for an answer? Not everyone is squeamish about killing in church." I'm not, anyway.

"No Immortal is stupid enough to take another's head on holy ground." Methos gave Michael a sharp look, wanting to make sure now that he doesn't do something stupid that could cause something... entertaining. "Or insane enough. The last time that happened, Vesuvius erupted and buried Pompeii and Herculanum. The Immortal who won that particular challenge died in the eruption."

At least, by all accounts, the idiot had. Certainly, no one had met him since, and Methos was just as glad. Any reinforcement of that particular rule was good.

"Even Kronos wouldn't fight on holy ground, and he never particularly cared for rules he didn't create." He hadn't even been bothered to follow the rules he made, as often as not.

"Good to know." Apparently, fighting on holy ground is the immortal equivalent of operating on American soil. It can be done, but you won't be around to talk about it afterwards. "What about shooting someone, dragging them off of holy ground, and then cutting their head off?" I've always liked to know what my options are.

Methos can't actually see a problem with that, himself, but he knows there would be few Immortals still living who would accept it without assuming the person doing so is a headhunter. "It attracts more attention than most Immortals care to look for, but I haven't heard of any disasters connected to doing so." He still wouldn't do it.

I wasn't fond of attention before I became Immortal. The idea of attracting any now is...distinctly unpleasant. I realize I'm gripping my fork hard enough to turn my knuckles white, and make myself put it down. Methos has been nothing but trustworthy, and giving in to the sudden urge to stab him with the silverware and vanish as completely as I can manage would be a really shitty way to repay him. Besides, if he's anything like as old as Kronos, I doubt I'd be able to manage it. Not with a fork, anyway.

"So it's a game. What are the other rules?" All games have them, even espionage - even though it might not look like it to an outsider - and if you don't know them, you can't help but lose.

There aren't any other rules that Methos considers unbreakable, though he knows younger Immortals often think he's cheating when he ignores rules that have come into existance since the damned thing spread. He created the Game, he knows the only rules that mattered at the time, and he knows which ones he doesn't care about being broken.

"Don't let mortals see you fight. The rest are new, or make no sense outside the context of the original game." Methos shrugs, eating another forkful of rice. "Younger Immortals think it's cheating to use a second weapon, or to fight two-on-one. And they really don't like it when someone avoids a challenge by shooting them in the head and leaving their body in the nearest body of water or ditch." He looks over at Michael with a faint, sardonic smile on his face. "And they don't quite understand that it doesn't have to be a sword you use as a weapon, so long as it has enough of a blade to cut off your opponent's head."

"What about explosives? Or blowing someone's head off with an assault rifle?" Because if I do go back to my old job, I'm really not going to have the time or the patience to deal with reappearing enemies who won't stay dead. I've had enough problems with mortal enemies who do the exact same thing - though this does put an interesting spin on the whole concept of faking one's death.

"They'd probably consider that cheating as well." Methos shrugs, not particularly concerned about that idea. "And it would attract the attention of other Immortals. If you have a real problem with someone, I'd suggest quick-setting cement and a deep hole in the ground."

The hole in the ground - in the form of a dry well - had been how Methos had dealt with Kronos when he'd wanted to go his seperate way, and his brother hadn't exactly been willing to let him go. Add some cement, and an Immortal would be kept occupied for decades, if not centuries.

It's the sort of ruthless, non-lethal solution that would have made me grin appreciatively four years ago - and might again, once I've gotten a little distance, had a chance to lock away certain memories. Now, though, it takes my breath away, and not in any way that I enjoy. The thought of being trapped like that - yeah. I realize just in time that I'm about to lose it, and summon up the ghost of the smile I used to use when I wanted someone to take their gun out of my face. "If I have a real problem with someone, I'm not going to leave them somewhere they'll eventually get out of." Doing that only ensures that someday, someone very angry and very dangerous will come looking for you. "How much harder is it to use a sword than a knife?"

Methos sets his fork down when he sees Michael's expression change, just before the younger Immortal brings up a faint smile that he recognizes for what it is. "Taking their head attracts the attention of mortals when you recieve the Quickening. A deep hole and cement don't attract as much attention, and gives you time to finish up what you need to before moving."

He leaned back in his chair, watching Michael carefully, and keeping his hands where they were visible. "A sword requires more training, and for it to be truly useful, it will be significantly heavier than any knife." And his choice of sword is the sort of heavy can-opener that was popular when the premier soldier of the day was the knight in his plate armor.

I can finish losing it, or I can pull myself together and keep asking questions. The first option appeals, so I decide that the second is the way to go. Assuming I can manage it, anyway. Closing my eyes doesn't help, so I take a deep breath instead. It doesn't help much either, but it's better than nothing.

"If it's a weapon, I can learn how to use it. And I'm pretty good at not attracting attention when I don't want it." My appetite is gone, and I want to push my plate away, so I leave it where it is. "What's this Quickening you keep mentioning, though?"

"The energy that heals you and that is transferred to another Immortal when they take your head." Methos isn't going to mention the memories and emotions that come with it, how overwhelming it can be when your opponent is a particularly strong or ancient Immortal. How much of a rush it is, how addictive that rush can be.

"The lightning." I've seen that, anyway, and I imagine it would be particularly noticable while it was...transferring. This time, I do push my plate away. It doesn't help keep the memories at bay, though it does reduce the chances that I'll throw up on my dinner. I really don't want to think about seeing that lightning repairing whatever damage Kronos decided to inflict, over and over and - *no*. I have plenty of bad memories, and I've been successfully ignoring them for years now. These shouldn't be that much harder to lock away. Except that they *are*, and I can't decide if I want to stay right where I am or get out of my chair *right now*.

Methos doesn't bother to confirm what Michael says, not when he can see how pale the man is, how he pushes his plate away almost reflexively. Sitting up again, Methos calls quietly, "Michael." Trying to draw him out of whatever memories are coming up - memories he can easily imagine, and knows just how hard they are to lock away. He's had far more experience at doing so than Michael, and he still finds Kronos impossible to truly forget.

"Yeah." Someone's talking to me, and I know I should try to hold onto that, but it's not happening. I have techniques for this, tricks that have worked on mass graves and childhood memories alike, but they're not working now. A distant pain in my hand tells me I've got the edge of the table in a death-grip, and while I want to close my eyes and focus on that, I don't trust the space behind my eyelids to stay empty once I do.

"Michael." His voice is slightly sharper this time, a hint of command steel in it as Methos straightens in his chair. Reaching out to remove the utensils from easy reach before he even contemplates going around to Michael's side of the table. If he doesn't get Michael's attention soon, he will, because if voice won't work, touch generally does get others to focus on him rather than memories. Even if it has gotten him hurt in the past.

"I'm fine." That much is reflex - never let anyone see how vulnerable you really are, if you don't want them taking advantage of it. Unfortunately, it's also a lie, and the worst part is that I find myself almost wishing Kronos were here, because I've always dealt better with pain than with painful memories. Almost. I can feel the world tilting around me, despite all my struggles to keep it level.

Shaking his head, Methos shoves his chair back to give him room to move, coming around the table, and reaching out to wrap his fingers around Michael's chin. Forcing his face up to look at Methos, his expression carefully blank. "You're not fine. Don't lie to me, Michael." Just enough command in there to give the words steel, not enough to make his voice harsh. Quiet, and level.

I've got one hand around Methos' wrist before I realize what I'm doing, but I manage to keep myself from taking it any further, and even to relax my fingers after a moment. I can't make myself let go - nor can I make myself care about that.

"It's part of the job." I'm probably not making much sense, but I don't really care about that, either. "I was trained for the eventuality of being taken captive, I should be able to get past it!"

Methos ignores the hand on his wrist, unworried about what Michael can do, though he knows he ought to be, now that he's explained some of what being Immortal means. The insistance that he ought to be able to get past it...

"In a century, you might be able to keep him off your mind. In a millennia, you might even forget most of the details. And if he weren't dead, the instant he found you, it would all come back as if he'd been gone only a few days at most."

"A century?" I shake my head, wanting to refuse to accept it. "I can't spend a century like this. I'm not safe like this." There's a part of me that could easily end up as twisted as Kronos was, and keeping that part down is as much of a struggle as keeping the memories from overwhelming me. "It doesn't make sense. This isn't how memory is supposed to work!"

"Memory doesn't obey rules set by the outside world." Methos shrugs, leaning against the table, watching Michael with a carefully controlled expression. "Four years with Kronos is worth a lifetime with anyone less inventive and sadistic." He doesn't want to wonder what would have happened to Michael if he'd spent a lifetime with Kronos, or the millinnium that Methos had ridden with him. If Michael could have turned into a more intelligent version of Caspian, or a less sane version of himself. Neither is worth thinking about for long.

"That much I'm aware of." It feels like I've spent my entire life as Kronos' play thing, as if everything in my life before he took me had actually happened to someone else. The hotel room, and even Methos, are just as unreal. I can't help closing my eyes, doing what I can to shut everything out, to stop thinking, stop remembering. Maybe if I'm still enough, quiet enough, thought and memory will be still and quiet as well.

Methos wants to reach out, to give Michael a physical anchor to wrap around and help ground himself against whatever is swirling in his head. Even shifts slightly as if about to do so before he reminds himself that he can't, not if Michael's going to be able to stand on his own, and for all that he is tempted to keep Michael for himself, he knows he has to let him figure some of this out on his own.

Closing my eyes was a mistake. I hadn't been thinking, or I would have expected memory to start replaying itself on the inside of my eyelids, would have realized that I would find myself drowning in it, unable to get out again. There's nothing at all still about the whirlwind in my head, and there is certainly no quiet. Instead, there is the echo of Kronos' voice and of my own screams. I don't know if I'll ever stop hearing them.

Seeing Michael pale slightly makes Methos move, a hand on his shoulder to shake him slightly. Even without weapons in easy reach, he doesn't want to get too close to Michael right now, or he's certain he'll be injured - which, while unlikely to be permanent, would be irritating and potentially dangerous. "Michael," he calls quietly, his voice steady and even. "Michael, open your eyes and look at me."

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2010/2011. Unedited.


End file.
